I’ve just finished number 32 in a series of small pieces. As I’ve worked on this series, there have always been several in the works at once, in various stages of progress. Yesterday at 2:00, I sewed on the last bit. Done. All of them. Nothing waiting in the wings. Nothing. Not a scrap. Not an idea. I still have more to photograph and more to post on Etsy, Facebook, my website, etc. I’ll stack up the little pieces and store them somewhere. Along with my other pieces. Lots of other pieces.
I’m not sure where that art-buying public went. Did they move to other countries or did they move to the back of the unemployment line? If they are still around, they aint buyin’. I don’t blame them. I’ve cut back myself. Will they return? I don’t know. Should I just keep on making? I don’t know. I do feel compelled. Like a cat that constantly washes itself—its just what I do. What I know.
I’ve had dry spots before. I’ve had low sales before. I’ve had doubts, self-pity, and viral lethargy. But now all of these things seem to have ganged up on me.
PTA? Daytime television? Volunteer work at the hospital? Loitering? Drinking and drugs? Making sex tapes and showing up on reality TV? Whittling toys for little girls and boys? Becoming a hypochondriac? Blogging for profit?
There’s all kinds of advice waiting for me out there. Go to a museum. Go shopping and look at the beautiful colors. Ha! Not in this little burg. I’m really not up for a three-hour drive to and from such places today.
I guess I’ll go get the vacuum and suck up all the muck from my last project. And file away all the pieces that are too large to be sucked up. And wait.
I’m going to get some bonbons and a daytime TV guide in case inspiration visits someone else.